Blue Hearts Bleed Red
by Shirokokuro
Summary: Jason's been doing fine. He tells himself that so often he almost believes it. But then, of course, someone happens to change all that. /sigh/ And Jason was doing so well lately, too... Police!Batfam AU. Tim and Jason centric. No slash. No superpowers. There's just angst...with a happy ending.
1. Catching Up

_AN: This story is admittedly less flashy than the other fics I've written. But this one is much more personal, like a journal of sorts, and I hope the meaning reaches._

* * *

 **Chapter One: Catching Up**

 _(Prologue to Week One)_

"Do you always have to sit like that?"

Jason glances up.

He's been watching the ice melt in his glass, beads of sweat collecting around the bottom on the tabletop. There's a waiter (a benefit of eating out), but he already knows he'll wipe it up himself. It's habit, a compulsion. Jason's developed a lot of those over the years.

Meanwhile, Roy's still sending that knowing look his way. The guy's been doing it all breakfast like it's a pastime, and it's a new thing, Jason recognizes; Roy never used to be able to keep so serious for so long, not even during the most strenuous interrogations. It reminds him that a lot has changed in the three years since they worked together.

Jason knows he shouldn't ask, but he does anyway. "What do you mean?"

Roy waves his fork in Jason's direction, gaze unabating. "I've been here two days, and any time we sit down somewhere, you're always facing the door." He stabs an egg like he's going to let the gesture speak for itself. "Tell me that's not a coincidence."

Of course, it's not.

Roy's gotten smarter since they split, but Jason wasn't expecting that he'd be able to read him this well. Jason even changed it up for that weekend, slept with the fan on instead of the TV tuned to some random mob movie on late night, anything with shots and screams and getaway cars.

Roy's a cop too. Sometimes Jason forgets that. But at the end of the day, Roy can never pull off a poker face the way he can.

Jason slings a casual arm over the back of his chair, leaning backward to complete the look. "You got me," he admits lightly with a wave of his free hand.

Roy reacts exactly the way Jason expects him to: a bit stunned, like he's wondering where his never-show-weakness best friend has gone and left this clone behind. It gives Jason the wherewithal to meet his eyes for the first time that morning. (It's not like he hasn't been able to, but everything else has seemed so much more appealing: the street outside the restaurant window, the ice in his glass, even the cheaply-tiled floor.) So, Jason makes sure it's a confident move when he looks, penetrating enough to tell Roy to stop digging before letting his expression slip into something more passive. "You call Kori yet today?"

Roy's talked about her enough since he came to visit, some girl with a dream body and a name Roy utters like she's a goddess to be worshipped. At the mention of her, the man's eyes are sparkling. It's a topic Jason knows Roy'll never tire of, which is why it's perfect.

"Yeah, first thing. She's been great— _We've_ been great," he babbles, looking humorously similar to a school boy with his first crush. _Must be serious about this one_ , Jason thinks, and he lets himself chip away at his food while he listens to a story he's already heard.

Roy's a risk-taker. He's always been that way. He sees a girl he likes? She's asked out so quick it makes her head spin—Jason's head too, if he's playing wingman. It explains why Roy was so quick to take a job offer across country three years back, a week later packed and on a plane with Jason's well wishes and a solemn oath that he'll come back to visit when he can.

The spontaneity's a congenial thing that explains why they get along so well, and although it's bitter-sweet, Jason's happy for him.

Roy's been handling the transition with his usual enthusiasm, Jason can tell, bursting with stories of palm trees and ocean sunsets so bright it's like looking into heaven. Jason's reminded of that difference when he spies the shark-tooth necklace Roy wears now ( _A gift from Kori_ , he guesses.) and the horrid tan lines the man flaunts with a misplaced pride, battle scars from the Miami sun.

"You should come visit sometime," Roy offers harmlessly, munching on a slice of toast. "The change of pace would do you good. I know you say you've been fine, but you really haven't been the same since you got back."

"I'll think about it," Jason half-smiles, dodging in a way more lighthearted than before, "that way I can meet this new girlfriend of yours."

Roy takes the bait again, sighing as if he's still reveling in the taste of ocean salt and sun-kissed skin. "Oh, man, Jay. You've really got to. She's got these gorgeous eyes and—and her hair!" Roy's tipped his head back, eyes closed. Jason can't say he's familiar with puppy love himself, but its endlessly amusing on his friend's face. "It's so long and thick! I didn't know hair could get like that!"

"A redhead, huh?" Jason prompts over his coffee.

"Oh yeah," Roy's quick to agree. "It's like…like _fire_!"

Jason shakes his head at the cheesy comparison, Roy declaring it like it's something no poet nor author has ever thought of crafting. "Better keep her away from Dick if that's the case. You know how he's got a thing for reds."

"Are you kidding?" Roy cracks a smile, leaning forward in challenge. "What does Goldie have that I don't? Sure, he's got the glutes, but me?" He scoffs comically, sipping at his water. "I've got the whole package!"

Jason opens his mouth to counter but stops short, because that's the moment Roy chokes on his drink ("Smooth, Roy. Real smooth."), and soon enough, they're both laughing in earnest, loud enough that it fills the whole restaurant.

* * *

Jason's been doing fine.

He tells himself that every time he drops his keys on the stand in the entryway and kicks the door closed. He always has a hand on his gun when he does it, and it reminds him that maybe "fine" isn't the word he wants to use—but it's as close as he can get considering everything he saw over those two years in the field, which amounts to quite a bit.

He hoped life after the assignment would be normal again, that he could slip back into his old habits and return to being Jason Todd, a simpleton cop with a mild book-addiction, instead of an infamous mass murderer, drug-dealer, crime lord.

Criminal.

What surprises Jason most is that life post-assignment is normal, overwhelmingly so. He gets to the police station by seven every morning. Brief (if not blunt) hellos are foisted on whoever gets stuck next to him at the coffee machine before he's allowed to spend the remainder of the day in solitude, holed up at his desk doing paperwork or stretching his legs on a patrol. He never returns home any earlier than eleven, collapsing onto the couch for a few hours of well-deserved rest before repeating the process like clockwork.

Jason does so again, flopping on the worn sofa cushions once he's certain the apartment's clear, and he busies himself flipping through channels. He's looking for something loud, something to drown out the voices drifting in from the neighboring apartment through the outlets. A young couple lives there, murmuring about taxes and work and how many kids they'll have. It's nothing abnormal. Nothing that should make Jason feel the way he does.

He finds some crime drama that he decides will do the trick and cracks the binding of another book, trying to get lost in the pages only to reread the same paragraph over and over without absorbing a single word.

It's been a year since he was pulled out, and Jason's life has returned to this: a regular rerun of weathered books, case files, gleaming squad cars, and other _normal_ things, things he encountered daily in the life he used to lead three years back.

But that's just it.

It's the normalcy of it all that throws him.

The humming of the refrigerator is always the ominous engine of a car, the tell-tale sign of a drive-by shooter; vehicles parked harmlessly on the street are really lying in wait; even an innocuous man he passed on the sidewalk one morning… His eyes were too shifty, meaning he had to know something, had to know that Jason is really an undercover cop, and Jason will be ratted out and dead before he can so much as blink.

Unsurprisingly, Jason avoids the path he walked that day religiously, and even when he gets off work, he continues to calculate alternate routes to every place he frequents. It's not a bad thing, he tells himself often enough. Bruce does that too, even encourages it. But Jason knows that, for his boss, it's more than just the precaution that it is for everyone else at the station.

Bruce does it because years of being undercover have left him paranoid, they all know it, and as much as Jason tries to convince himself he and Bruce are different, he already understands he's suffering from the same thing.

But that's the only mindset Jason has anymore: paranoid. He hid his status for two years, and now that it's done, now that he isn't undercover as some crazed felon, he's come back to his ordinary life and his ordinary job only to discover that _he_ isn't ordinary anymore; he's still trying to pass himself off as something he isn't, and after having spent so much time living on edge, so much time second-guessing and being on guard, he's found he can't let those habits go.

And Jason knows he's nothing if not a creature of habit.

It's why he consistently does a doubletake when he retrieves his mail from the P.O. box downstairs, why he likes the familiar sound of gunfire blaring from the TV, and why he cleans his pistol any time he can't sleep.

He's put the book down before he's fully realized it, and the weapon's disemboweled on the coffee table as always, like some magical force has instructed him to start vetting the bullets in the chamber because there's that omnipresent chance they won't work when he needs them to.

He falls asleep making sure they won't misfire.

* * *

Jason's thankful for the fan. He'll never admit to Dick that it was a good idea, but the circulation helps combat the summer humidity, spread through the office thick as marsh water. The whirring fills the silence, and his desk is out of the way just enough to keep his paperwork from being caught in the wind when it oscillates.

"Morning, Jay," Dick chirps as he passes by, probably on his way to turn in a report. He must think better of it, as he lingers in front of the desk, persuading Jason to set aside his work for a second. He glances up to find the man's hair is disheveled with sweat, his tie limp around his neck like a feather boa. It's something Dick would probably wear now that Jason thinks about it, and in that moment, he's glad their unit has mandatory uniforms—no matter how insufferable they might be in the heat.

"Is Bats in The Cave?" the older man asks innocently, fanning himself with the manila folder in his hand.

"Is Bruce in his office?" would've been the normal question, but Dick has given everything and everyone at the station a nickname ("They did it in Blüdhaven!" he argued years back, "we should do it here too!"), and despite the efforts of a few concerned citizens at the department (namely Bruce and Jason), the names have stuck.

But right now, Dick isn't terrorizing the recruits with cheesy nicknames, instead standing artlessly in front of Jason's desk and waiting for an answer.

Jason quirks an eyebrow. "Do I look like his secretary to you?"

The quip isn't venomous, but Jason pulls back another page in the file he's been reading as if that's all he has to say on the topic. The report's a serial bombing case that's somehow gotten dumped on him to solve. It's not his expertise, but he's dealt with enough explosives before to know he'll be able to crack it on his own; he hasn't had another partner since Roy, and he's fine with it being that way.

He looks up again to see Dick still there, proffering a sarcastic pout.

"He's in a meeting with Gordon," Jason finally relents. He lets the paperwork fall back onto the growing pile on his desk. "Won't be back for a while."

Dick beams, big brother to everyone there even if it's not wanted or warranted. "Was that really so hard? Gosh," the man tuts like an old maid, "you're more stubborn than Bruce, you know that?"

Jason doesn't comment and, instead, turns to his computer and the steady flood of emails it promises.

"You want me to get you some more coffee?" Dick offers, trying to save the conversation with an air of amity. Jason shoots him down, but the man scoops up his empty mug with a shrug and a, "I'm headed there anyway," before slipping out the plexiglass door.

It's in those quiet moments that Jason thinks he should tell someone readjusting hasn't been the cakewalk he was expecting, but he bats away the idea as soon as it comes; he can handle it on his own.

The people at the station give him space, and Jason appreciates it—although he'll never say it. Still, sometimes he finds himself that way there too, a bit paranoid, a bit untrusting.

Because everyone in the department is practically a bloodhound, all trained to sniff out any pretenders. He can feel Cass Cain's eyes on his back when he isn't looking, and even Dick Grayson's happy chatter and morning greetings sound irrationally threatening, like it's all an attempt to lull him into a false sense of security before announcing that he's paranoid and should be kicked off the force.

But Jason's particularly skilled at pretending (He's got years of practice under his belt, after all.), and if worse comes to worst, he's more than happy to point to the compulsory psychiatry sessions he endured months ago. It was difficult, but after faking a breakthrough following a few weeks of nonchalance, the shrink seemed to buy his act and cleared him not three visits later.

Jason's boss wasn't quite as amicable back then, but with the psychiatrist's recommendation staring up at him from his desk, Bruce Wayne _had_ to take him back.

This job is all Jason really has and all he's ever wanted to do. Bruce knows that. But it doesn't mean the man hasn't given him a second look since, and even though Jason's all but settled back into the routine of everyday life, he can still feel the pressure of expectation—maybe even concern—in Bruce's gaze.

That's likely why the man gave him some advice when Jason returned from his undercover assignment a year ago. Bruce is direct in everything he does, and it was true for back then too as he looked Jason dead in the face one day after a briefing and grunted that patrols were good, that they'd help him get back into the swing of things.

And as much as Jason is typically the last to agree with anyone, he's found the advice solid: Hitting the streets is something Jason did plenty of times before in those two years undercover. It's one of the reasons he loathes going home at night, always planning how he can sneak in more overtime without being suspicious.

Jason straightens his legs under his desk to relieve some of the stiffness, feeling the bones in his hip pop, and he decides maybe the idea's a good one that morning too.

Patrols aren't something he has to do anymore considering his rank, but Bruce won't be back for at least an hour, and after accepting his mug back from Dick, Jason's out in the parking lot swinging a leg over his bike. It's such a dark navy that it's practically black, broiling from the city sun like he could cook on it if he tried, and he wonders briefly if it's this hot in Miami.

But Gotham's home, no matter how crummy it may be. Jason jerks back the kickstand like the thought is final. He'll get better, he promises himself. All he needs is time, that and open road.


	2. The Replacement

**Chapter Two: The Replacement**

It's not very eventful for a Sunday, but in hindsight, it's too hot a day to be out.

Still, Jason was expecting something more than what he gets (a few reckless drivers and some noise complaints) before he's back at the station, pushing open the doors and cringing when he's met with air equally sweaty and miserable as the outside.

The whole station is haunted by bad heating and cooling units, the AC always blaring in the winter while the heaters flare up only when the summer temps reach unbearable heights. Jason's grateful someone's at least turned the blasted thing off when he falls back into his chair, resting his head on his desk while he waits for the fan to blow his way.

A few gusts of wind catch in his hair before another sound comes.

"Excuse me..."

For a moment, Jason thinks Dick or Cass is there and someone's shyly trying to pass through them. But the pair are out working cases (They've all been swamped lately.), and there's no shuffling of feet against the linoleum floors to indicate the request was for someone else. So, begrudgingly, Jason pries his forehead off his desk.

"Yes?" he asks with a bored expression, eyes automatically sweeping over the person in front of him. It's someone barely 5'6'' who—if not for the dress shirt and pants—Jason would guess is looking for a crossing guard to help him get back from school.

Essentially, this newcomer's no one very threatening.

Jason lets go of the drawer handle, the one where he stashes his spare pistol, and reminds himself getting trigger-happy isn't a habit he should pursue. He hides the lapse well enough, though, countenance as calm as ever.

"You're—" The kid glances at the name plate seated on the edge of Jason's desk. "—Detective Todd, right? From Wayne's unit?" And it's a minor thing, but the more Jason looks at this person, the more tired he seems, like he's made a lot of mistakes before getting here and isn't eager to make more.

"That's what they keep telling me," Jason drawls in response, reclining in his chair as he clicks the top of a pen on his desk, "what'chya got for me, kid?"

It takes a second, one of those long, pregnant seconds that always precedes bad news like "your goldfish died" or "the world is ending," before the person inhales deeply, some of the exhaustion clearing from his face as he rolls his shoulders back to stand straighter. "Detective-Specialist Timothy Drake from Metropolis," he introduces, "I've been assigned to help you with the Robinson case."

The office fan runs another cycle.

It's the only sound in the rom.

Frankly, the whole "world is ending" bit would've been more expected, and Jason's sure his surprise shows as he sets down his pen. It's an innocent mix-up. It's gotta be. Because Jason doesn't need help with that case, and he certainly didn't ask for any.

"I think there's been a mistake."

"There's no mistake," the kid answers, although he looks a little defeated, "I'm the explosives expert your office requested last week."

 _Explosives expert?_

Jason can't help glancing down at his desk. The Robinson case sits there, the serial bombing one he's had for the past month. The kid would match with someone commonly entreated for that type of crime; he's not out of place here in that regard. But the fact still stands that Jason didn't file for anyone.

Suddenly, everything is under suspicion. He should have caught on sooner. Bruce's unit is well-known for its work, so unsolved cases find their way to their desks all the time. But bombings aren't usually one of them; Carrie Kelly in Kane's unit handles those types of things.

And a detective from Metro? The GCPD has its own experts that are more than capable of covering the few lapses in knowledge Jason might have.

But here Jason sits, with a case that shouldn't be his and a kid who shouldn't be here. And somehow, it all has come together this way, and Jason knows just where to go for answers.

The door's flying open not five seconds later.

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

Bruce perks up faintly from where he sits at his desk. He's not shocked per se, instead looking faintly amused by the furious person who's busted into his den of an office.

And really, Dick's not wrong to call the place a cave, what with all its mounds of files and shut windows. The blinds are always turned up so no one can see in, the only lights in the room from the two monitors sitting on the desk, and even then, those computers are used solely to view camera footage or for some high-tech analysis program that has become so integral to their profession over the years. Everything else is done on paper, because electronics are hackable and Bruce doesn't take chances.

But everyone in their unit has quirks: Dick has his questionable sense of style; Cass has her silence; and Bruce has his paranoia ("Vigilance," he calls it.), a quirk that has since rubbed off on Jason.

The guy likes things that are predictable, so Jason knows a new detective showing up was common knowledge to Bruce the second the Robinson case wound up in his hands. Still, Bruce is there, blandly entertained over his mountains of paperwork and waiting for Jason to say more.

"Tell me you didn't have anything to do with this."

"Do with what?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean," Jason snaps, "that case! That kid! Just who do you think you are?"

Bruce leans forward a fraction, enough to put his elbows on his desk and lace his fingers together. The shift doesn't make Jason any less angry.

"You could use the help," Bruce finally speaks, and Jason searches the statement for a moment because he's not sure if the man is talking about the case—or something else. He continues, "Whoever that bomber is is dangerous, and another pair of eyes could prove useful."

"But I don't _need_ a new partner, Bruce. Temporary or not. Just stick Carrie with me or something and send the kid back."

It's a situation Jason never thought he'd be asking for, because Carrie's the last person in the station he wants to work with. She's impulsive and gets too excited around explosives for comfort, always wearing weird goggles like she can't wait to get close to something dangerous that could blow out her eyes. But honestly? She's familiar, and that's better than the alternative.

Bruce isn't really paying much attention anymore, though, pulling a file close. "Carrie's got her hands full, Jason. We all do."

Of course their office is flooded with work. It's summertime in Gotham: the season of baseball, ice cream, and rampant crime. But it's the same story in Metropolis, and they both know it.

"Then let me handle it on my own if we're that busy," Jason argues, "you've still got no right dumping someone on me without my knowing so. That's low—even for you."

Evidently, Bruce has decided he's had enough, as the man casts a pointed look at a certificate on the wall and the three extra letters tacked on to his lieutenant title. Jason knows what Bruce is saying, a strong move for a gesture so subtle: The C.D.S. declares he's the boss, no matter how much Jason may want to deny it, and that what he says is law.*

Jason wants this job. He's wanted it the second he marched into the police station when he was a teenager, and he knows that look when he sees it. Bruce is telling him that's enough. And despite wanting to lay into him more, Jason keeps his trap shut, instead settling for the best death glare he's ever dished out.

With that out of the way, Bruce is calling in the kid from outside the door, and they go on for a bit about what happens next. Jason does his best to tune it out; he doesn't want to hear it. But somehow, scraps of the conversation reach anyway.

"Jason here can get you set up with a uniform tomorrow, and you'll be on his team for the next two months of your liaison period," Bruce's voice cuts in, "he'll show you the ropes and get you reacquainted with the streets here."

There's a second where Jason processes the verb of choice in that last thought ( _re_ acquainted). _That's great_ , he thinks sarcastically, _just great_. The only thing worse than a greenhorn from Metro is a greenhorn from Metro who's got a past in Gotham, and it looks like Jason's managed to pick up the latter.

Ah, life is full of such unexpected joy.

Jason just wishes he could say the same about his own life.

He's still glaring daggers at Bruce, silently hoping looks really can kill, but naturally, the man's as unfazed as usual and—what's more—Bruce is actually allowing the time to eek by, second by painful second, without dismissing either of them. He's such a jerk like that.

Finally, _finally_ , there's the scribbling of a pen, and Jason's already gearing his muscles to bolt.

"That is all."

He's out in the hallway the moment the words are out, making a beeline for the stairwell that'll take him to his bike. Jason just got back, but that doesn't matter. His thoughts are too busy pulling him out of the station, running away with him with each step.

This is so typical. Jason's kicking himself for not having put it all together sooner: Bruce always pulls crap like this, doing things he—with all his magnanimous knowledge and time parked in that stupid office of his—believes will help when, really, they only make things worse.

Jason's reached the lot by now, and the motorcycle engine's humming beneath him like it's saying farewell. That's probably what the bike's doing, actually, and Jason winces. Today's his last day with it, because tomorrow means he'll have to share a car with some cheeky Detective-Specialist ( _What crack in Metro invented that stupid title, anyway?_ ), and all the progress Jason's made in the past year will be gone.*

He spends a few minutes just holding the handlebars, watching the pavement roll up in hot steam in the distance, as he already regrets the next two months of his life. Nine whole weeks of baby-sitting and being even more on edge with someone there to scrutinize his every move.

Jason was doing just fine on his own, and this was the last thing he needed, bottom of the barrel, would rather die kind of last thing he needed. He doesn't want a new partner, because no one can replace Roy. But it looks like he's getting one anyway, all because of his superior's ill-placed benevolence and knack for solving— _worsening_ —other people's problems.

Jason eases out a sigh, thumbing the handlebar grips and calculating how long it would take for him to drive to Miami. It's a half-hearted thought, but the more the clock ticks away on the dash, the more tempting Roy's crappy seaside shack gets. In the end, though, the idea is shoved away.

 _Two months_ , Jason thinks, pulling out onto the street. He can do this…

Right?

* * *

 _AN: Tim's side comes next chapter. You have been forewarned._

 _*Sergeants and lieutenants, despite being higher in both rank and pay, typically only have supervisional authority over detectives. However, there is an exception, and that is if that sergeant/lieutenant has a special ranking designating that they are the commander of a team of detectives, meaning they can issue orders. The C.D.S. rank is specifically for lieutenants._

 _*The NYPD sorts detectives into two categories: detective-specialists (because they possess a unique skill set) and detective-inspectors. No other departments use this system, though, and just have the latter. I thought it'd be fun to attach that fact to the MPD instead._


	3. Bygone Skies

**Chapter Three: Bygone Skies**

"I don't think I can do this," Tim admits, watching a string of Kansas hills pass by on the horizon through the window. The mesa look blue as forget-me-nots from this far away, and there's an irony in that thought that tastes bitter on Tim's tongue.

Out here, the farmland stretches on for miles until it hits those ridges, but the sky is wider still, bending around the rest of the world in a way that would make any person feel small. Tim doesn't mind, though. He's trying to commit it all to memory as he watches it slip by. He's already missing it, missing the way the sun makes the grain blush gold in the morning and the way the hay smells. They're silly things to miss, he knows, but he can't help it. It'll be gone soon.

The truck jolts forward, and Tim shoots a glare at Clark, because he's certain the man hit the pothole on purpose.

"You'll be fine," Clark chuckles, and he rights the wheel. "You're just overthinking things."

Tim's not so sure.

He remembers how Gotham looks from childhood, the buildings wheezing smoke from every orifice like it's all liable to collapse and die. Clark thinks it will be a good change ("Get you back to your roots," he said.), and maybe he's right, but Tim's roots aren't ones he wants to revisit. It's not that he's hostile toward the city—not necessarily, but it's not where he belongs and Tim knows it.

And yet he's here, sitting shotgun in a rusty pickup and trying to remember where things went so wrong. He already knows, of course, but he can't keep himself from reliving it anyway. Life on the Kent's farm was supposed to help with that, but it hadn't. Not really.

"Put down your window," Clark suggests after glancing at his passenger, "the air's nice today."

Without complaint, Tim's complying, rolling it down with the manual crank until there's a soft wind easing in. The air's nice everyday out here, nothing but grass and wheat and trees, and although the summer sun is hot, there are clouds out to provide shade. They're the white, fluffy kind that crown the earth in rings and bleed red in sunsets. Tim's trading them in for smog, he thinks, and he can't hide the grimace that follows.

"I know it's nerve-wracking," his driver sympathizes, guiding the truck onto another dirt road, "but it's for the best, I promise. You need something different, and I've worked with Bruce for a long time. He'll take good care of you. They're like family over there."

Tim doesn't bother telling him that he's already got a family on the Kent's farm; he's only half-listening, busy trying to capture the way the Kansas wind feels in his hair through the window. He wishes he could bottle it up and take it with him, but he can't.

The drive goes by faster than Tim would like. It feels as though he only just said goodbye to everyone at the farm, and the truck's already pulling up to the train station. Clark jumps out first, spry for his age, and starts unloading Tim's things from the bed.

"Ginger snaps from Ma," Clark says, a warning in his eyes as he hands him a tin of sweets. They both know Martha Kent's cooking is addictive, and it's the first time Tim's smiled since they pulled out of the driveway an hour back. But then, the smile's gone, easy as it came.

Always the boy scout, Clark helps Tim carry his sparse belongings to the platform, chatting with him until it's almost time. The nostalgia hits them both hard when the whirring of an engine becomes audible in the distance, and before Tim's realized it, he's being pulled into a bone-crushing hug, the kind only the Kents can pull off, and Tim's tempted into thinking that's what "home" feels like.

"Call us when you get there," Clark chides, voice suspiciously teary, "and come back for Thanksgiving and Christmas and—"

"Clark, I'm gonna miss my train," Tim half-laughs, wiggling free from the superhuman grip.

"Right, right," and Clark's handing him the few worldly possessions Tim owns, the man struggling to hide the red around his eyes, and the train doors snap closed.

* * *

It's all coming back to Tim as he stands in front of Detective Todd's desk, feeling drained from the trip and life in general. He just wants this to work out, just so he can call the Kents later and tell them as much.

Of course, it doesn't.

"I think there's been a mistake," Todd says, and he looks a bit cagey as he sets down his pen.

 _There_ has _been a mistake_ , Tim agrees before he can stop himself. He should be in Kansas or Delaware or anywhere other than the Jersey coast, anywhere other than Gotham where he is now.*

"There's no mistake," Tim breathes, "I'm the explosives expert your office requested last week."

It's the simplified version of events, Tim understands. It's been kept under wraps, but Tim's a detective and he's smart enough to know Clark pulled a lot of strings to get him here. The GCPD has its own experts that can handle these kinds of cases (It was the first argument Tim made against coming.), but Tim's especially good—or at least…he was—and Clark said they respect that professionalism over here.

Professionalism flies out the window when Todd jumps up and is whipping open an office door. Tim's followed, more because he's not sure what else to do and he's pulled in by the drama of it all.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Todd's barking at the poor soul who's probably in there. Tim's curious who it is, just so he can have a name to go with the other character in the soap opera that's suddenly playing out before his eyes. He cringes when he spies the plaque outside the door.

 _Lt. Bruce Wayne C.D.S._

 _Investigative Supervisor_

Todd's boss.

His boss.

"They're like family over there," Clark said, and the words ring in Tim's ears right then because that's exactly what he's been afraid of. Growing up, family always meant absences and arguments and misunderstandings. It's why Tim escaped to the Kent's for holiday breaks when he was in school. They were more than happy to have him, and his parents… They were more than happy not to.

Standing in the doorway brings all those feelings back, seeing Todd pick a fight with his superior from the office entrance. It's an image Tim saw plenty when he was young, trapped in a house watching his parents tear into each other, and it's the same now, in a way, because he's trapped here too.

All that's left is Tim, waiting in front of the office and wanting to sink straight down into the floor, because he'd give anything to be just a little more invisible than he already is.

"Detective Drake."

The name breaks the air, and instantly, he's standing there as evident as everyone else. Tim takes a hesitant step into the room, his shoes falling heavy on the hard floors.

"Yes, sir?" he answers, because the response has been drilled into him and it's all he can think to say.

The lieutenant's looking him over silently from his place behind his desk. Tim can barely make out if the man's hair is black or brown in the dark room, the blinds notably flicked closed, and books are imperiously stacked on tables and shelves like bricks. There's a computer monitor on the desk—one on each side, actually—but by all the papers, Tim guesses the lieutenant must be a hard-copy kind of cop. If nothing else, it adds a serious component to the already dreary room.

After a moment of watching Tim, Wayne hums in a way that's tired and thoughtful, the sound rumbling in his throat, before settling back in his chair and pulling a file up to meet his eyes. "Clark tells me you're a hard worker," he says, gleaning the insides of the folder. It's probably Tim's personal file, and the realization makes his stomach churn. "I'm going to expect twice as much from you in that regard. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," comes the jaded reply.

Wayne nods, apparently satisfied, as he lays the file back on his desk. "Jason here can set you up with a uniform tomorrow—" Tim fights back a puzzled look, because uniforms are typically for officers, not detectives. At least, that's how they do it in Metro… "—and you'll be on his team for the next two months of your liaison period. He'll show you the ropes and get you reacquainted with the streets here."

There's a lengthy pause in which Tim can feel Todd beside him, radiating spite like whatever row the two just had isn't going to blow over anytime soon. Tim can already tell the man's temperamental and brash, and although he doesn't really know him, he can't help noticing Todd always has a hand on his gun holster. The observation strikes him hard.

Todd's still scowling, but Wayne's absorbing it all like death glares are sunshine to him. He hasn't looked at either of them since he opened his mouth last, a pen in his hand as he jots something down, likely a signature by the haste of it. "That is all," he finally breaks, both voice and eyes undisturbed as he remains focused on his paperwork.

Todd storms out the second the sentence arrives; it's just Tim and Wayne left.

"Thank you for the opportunity, Lieutenant," Tim murmurs with a polite dip of his head. The words are dripping with exhaustion, but he's too tired to hide it. He turns to leave too when a voice catches him.

"Just Bruce will do, Detective."

Tim glances back over his shoulder, mildly surprised, because Bruce Wayne is the last person he was expecting to be on a first-name basis with. The casualness reminds him of Clark, in a weird way, and it has him aching for Kansas all over again.

"Get some rest," Bruce speaks once more, attention still fixed to the files littering his desk, "I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

"…yes, sir."

* * *

It's glaringly empty.

There's only one bedroom (more like a closet, really), one bathroom, and a kitchen with a sorry seating area crammed in front of the entryway. The apartment shouldn't feel vacant with so little space, but evidently, that's exactly the vibe it gives off.

Tim sighs, easing down onto the squeaky couch where his things are sitting. Both bags are eying him dolefully as if to ask why there are so few, but Tim ignores them, letting his eyes roam his new home.

The apartment's a cheap place he's renting, stuffed into one of the shoddy complexes lining the streets. It's the best he could find on such short notice, and Tim keeps reminding himself he's only here for two months. Just two. Then, he can be back in Metropolis and the MPD to pick up the pieces of his life.

He can't go back to the Kent's, and it's not like they wouldn't welcome him, but… No. Despite the help he gave handling the chores, he's been a fixture in their house long enough. He'll visit maybe, but he won't inconvenience them any more than that.

It doesn't mean he doesn't wish he were there, though, surrounded by friendly faces who give him love and a purpose. The homesickness ( _Is that what this is?_ ) is worse than he was expecting, rearing its head when he takes in the chipping white paint on the walls, grayed from time and neglect, and when he flicks on the stove light in the kitchen, it only highlights the fact there's no one there.

It all feels that way. The apartment's barren compared to what he's used to and depressingly dark, neither of the two windows in the place facing east or west to catch the sun. That doesn't really matter; it's nighttime by now anyway.

But Tim's already thinking of waking up without the familiar morning sunshine slipping through the curtains of his old bedroom. He used to split it with someone else, that room on the second floor of the Kent's farm house, but it's just his now. Tim tries not to think about that.

He exhales and unzips one of his bags, the noise a long shriek in the quiet, to start unpacking. It doesn't take long for him to find the ginger snaps Clark gave him when he left, and Tim decides to set the tin on the coffee table, popping the lid just enough to allow the sugary smell to escape and prowl the insides of the apartment. He's had the sweets all day but hasn't touched a single one. He's been told that's a thing with him.

"You're always like this," Tim's last partner said, "good things happen and you just let them get all stale because you're afraid they'll vanish if you enjoy them."

It's true. But Tim's always been like that. There are still unwrapped toys in the attic of his parents' house—He's certain of it—wasting away in plastic wrap because God forbid he took them out and played with them; they might break that way. And so, they decay instead.

To be honest, the Kents are the only good thing he hasn't thoroughly messed up in his life, and even then…

Tim slides off the couch and onto the floor where, sadly, it's more comfortable. He promised Clark he'd call, and he really should. He's staring down his contact list, phone in hand, and it'd be so easy to tap the screen.

But, today's been awful: hours sitting stiff on a train only to find trouble the moment he tried to do something right for himself—tried to do something right for the Kents, because they want this to work out for him. They really do.

Tim can't make the call in the end. Instead, his head slips between his knees, and he shoves the phone onto the coffee table. It's been a failure of a day. That sinks in when he spies the cigarette burns on the carpet beneath him, black tar marks that splotch the once-white threads.

He sighs and resigns himself to remaining there, low on the floor by himself, while he's crowded by empty furniture.

Tim doesn't want a new partner, doesn't need one. That's all he can think, because it's the truth.

Because no one can replace Conner.

* * *

 _*Metropolis is set in Delaware (However, some comics state it as being in New York.) while Gotham is in New Jersey._


	4. Jason's First Habit

**Chapter Four: Jason's First Habit**

 _(Week One)_

Jason's a perfectionist.

He didn't used to be that way, but it's been twelve years since he came home and found Mom dead. The habit's been hard to kill ever since.

It'd been a mistake to leave her alone back then, but Jason doesn't do mistakes anymore, and he makes sure of it: The books on his apartment's shelf are lined up just so; the case files in his drawer are alphabetized and tabbed; and if the vehicle he's operating doesn't look like it just came off the lot, he's already there to buff out the scratches and touch up the paint.

They're weird things. He'll confess to that. But the people at the station have acclimated to him being meticulous over everything like the earth will give way if he doesn't. So, it's no surprise that the morning after Tim comes, Jason's opening the closet where they keep the spare uniforms to find them all folded neatly, arranged by size.

Tim's beside him, looking marginally impressed by the display, but there's still a question in his eyes while he watches Jason skim through the piles.

Detectives don't usually wear uniforms. That's something reserved for officers and press conferences, and it's obvious Tim's noticed. But as much as Jason wants the kid gone, he doesn't have the heart—or the stomach—to tell the story behind why everyone in their unit has mandated attire.

Dick's consistently bad fashion choices forced Bruce's hand.

That's as much of the tale as Jason's willing to share.

But he'll spare the kid that horror story, and with that decided, Jason dumps an all-black getup in Tim's arms with as little ceremony as possible. To be honest, Jason's just hoping it fits. It's the smallest size they have, the one reserved for Cass, and Tim should be counting his lucky stars that the uniforms are androgynous.

But it seems that's as far as the kid's luck goes.

* * *

"You know you can turn the fan _off_ , right?"

They're sitting in the office now, Jason at his desk and Tim at Roy's behind him. The second desk has sat vacant for three years, and it still is in a way, save for the few papers Tim has strewn across its surface. The kid's messy—Jason caught on to that fast—and the oscillating fan in the office has wanted to help in that endeavor, as any time it turns, the papers are making a break for it.

The added wind helps stave off the heatstroke looming over everyone's heads, but it's not the end of the world if they lose it. (They're still suffering, even with the fan.) However, Jason's new "partner" is either too shy or—worse—too polite to do anything about it.

It's been twenty minutes of Jason observing the kid battle with the air before he's finally decided he's had enough.

"I'm fine," Tim squeaks in reply. He's lying; he's trying to keep a slip of paper grounded as they speak. "I've actually been looking over the Robinson case and, well… It'd be nice to go to the crime scenes. Just to get a feel for who we're dealing with."

There's nothing there to see—in more ways than one. Jason has already been to each of the locations, and he's combed them as thoroughly as he always does. The few things that haven't been blown to kingdom come are recorded in those reports.

Jason tells the kid as much. "The guy's a narcissist. Likes signing his work. That's all you need to know."

That's all they _do_ know, and that sparse knowledge is thanks to Jason's good eye and bookworm tendencies.

The moment he got the case last month, Jason went to the scene, Robinson Park—or what was left of it, anyway. Back then, no one realized it was a serial case. That's what the officer previously in charge of it claimed. "An isolated event," he said. But Jason sniffed around the rubble anyway, charred park benches looking on while the swing sets sat all bent out of shape like a telekinetic had decided to cut loose.

Jason found the note tacked to a lamppost across from the park entrance. No one had thought anything of it: It'd been there days before the bombing ever happened, and they'd chalked it up to coincidence, the words not making sense. That is, until Jason saw it.

"I was born in the Year 1632," was all it said. It's the opening lines to _Robinson Crusoe_.

The bombing had happened on Friday, 4:32 p.m.*

By then, Jason was in too deep to pull out of the case, but checking the cameras only uncovered their guy is a man with an affinity for sweatshirt hoods and hiding his face, probably six foot by the way he measured up with the lamppost.

But there are thousands of people fitting that description in Gotham. Heck, Jason is one of them. And so, it's been four weeks and two more bombings, and as much as the paper notes left at the scenes are helpful, the help only comes in retrospect; there's been no break in the case.

To be honest, it's a surprise the FBI hasn't started sniffing around yet. Then again, Bruce probably had something to do with that, likely making a claim that the best of both the GCPD and MPD are more than capable of cracking the case...

Jason twirls his pen once. _Yeah, this has got Bruce's name written all over it._

"Just humor him, Jay," Dick suddenly pipes in from his own desk, reeling Jason's attention back in. As expected, the guy's fond of Tim, almost giddy, like he's got a new baby brother and he can't wait to build Legos with him. "It's only a ten-minute drive. Can't hurt you any to let him take a look."

 _Thanks, Dick_ , Jason groans, because the kid's looking at him with hopeful eyes now and Jason can't say no without looking bad. But it's better than watching Tim duke it out with the fan, so he stands up and grabs his keys. "Alright. But I'm driving."

Tim seems happy at the agreement—first time all day, and he lets Jason lead the way. When they get to the parking lot, though, there's something more that needs to be said.

"Look," Jason begins, turning around in front of the car as if it's something that needs protecting. "This car here, they say it's the station's, but it's really mine. No one touches it, no one _breathes_ on it, without a signed permission slip from yours truly. So, if you're thinking you'll ever get behind the wheel, stop thinking it now. Because you dent it, you die. Am I clear?"

The last time Jason sat shotgun was years ago, and it's an experience he's still trying to live down. Tim must get it, because he gives a nervous nod of understanding, slipping into the passenger seat without complaint.

And just like that, ten minutes go by.

They spend a good two hours poking around the park, and Tim looks serious, almost grave. He must be good to be so patient, wanting to check everything—even the surrounding streets, as if he can imagine their perp walking down them. But they don't find anything more than what's already in the file.

Tim is quiet when they pull out.

Jason would say the kid's still considering the crime scene, but there's a darkness about him that says otherwise. He's looking out the window for a change, a glazed expression on his face. Things are passing them by, people and shops and trees, but Jason's sure Tim's not taking any of them in, just staring straight past them. It's a weird realization. Somehow, the man knows it's true anyway.

It's only been eight hours, but Jason is used to the kid's eyes being on him, like he's a jigsaw puzzle and Tim's checking to see if all the pieces are in the box. It's been that way all day, and that fact has been playing up Jason's paranoia. But not having the attention makes his nerves worse. Silence always makes them worse.

Jason steals a glance at the compartment between the seats.

It's another habit. An old one actually. He picked it up when he was young, watching Mom fall apart in front of him, because it was the only thing that made it better.

His childhood wasn't a normal one, not by a long shot, and Jason's come to understand that over his years of policing. His tenure at the department has involved interviewing hundreds of people: suspects, victim's families, witnesses. No one's exempt, and every person reveals small tidbits of their lives, details that Jason takes and compares with his own life—just to see the extent of the damage.

So, he knows that parents leaving on trips is not uncommon. But they're never the kind of trips _his_ parents took.

For the person Jason refuses to call "Dad," it meant trips to prison, in and out. The sentences were always just short enough for Mom to stick it out with him. She shouldn't have, but she did, because Mom always had to take him back. Anything for cash.

Mom's trips were of a different variety, but they were always worse. "Dad" vanished from Jason's life, lost to the system, so he didn't really know him. But Mom… She was there but not there at all.

Her trips meant bursts of happiness, pulling him into hugs and chattering for hours about whatever came to mind. She'd pet his hair and talk and talk until he'd practically be asleep in her lap. He never could fall asleep, though, the hammering of her heart against his ears always too fast, too loud. But he listened to its beating anyway, because he knew it wouldn't be long before it changed. It was a shift that was audible to him, a gradual thing that tugged her down to the point where she couldn't walk or stand.

Jason genuinely enjoyed those spurts of joy, that rush Mom got, but he always felt guilty afterward because of what followed them.

He was six when he figured out why she was like that, so present for a while before she'd retreat back into herself, eyes glazed, heartbeat slow. He'd sit next to her and watch as she stared at the floor. She couldn't help it; the pull was too strong. And Jason couldn't help it either, because he was terrified she'd get pulled down too low, down to a place that she couldn't come back from.

He didn't fully understand it, but he knew. He knew what was making her sick.

Because Mom's trips were drug trips, shakes on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m.—possessed by demons or the high, Jason could never tell—and hours of sitting beside her. Always next to her. Watching her breathe, watching her twitch, watching her eyes trace the rotting floorboards.

Jason was young, but even back then, he knew it wasn't normal. Kids hold their parent's hands, not their wrists. They feel warm fingers and warm palms and love.

Jason was just feeling for a pulse.

That's about the time he picked up his very first habit, the one that started it all. He knew he shouldn't have, but the cigarette smoke was the only thing strong enough to mask the stench of vomit, always from Mom's episodes. It was something to take the edge off while he waited for her to come back—to come _to_ —and soon, he found he couldn't quit.

So, Mom had her addiction. And he had his.

Their crumbling apartment became occupied by two addicts, sitting side by side on the floor against the wall, one breathing smoke and the other just breathing. Jason always made sure she was. Until one day, he checked on her to find that she wasn't.

In the end, Mom's addiction killed her, but Jason still kept his. He didn't break it for a long time—couldn't, not until he started working for Bruce. It'd been the end of it for years.

But then, he was undercover, back with people always on a high, either from drugs or a kill, back to living in squalor with rotting floorboards littered by hypodermic needles. The habit revived, and ever since Jason came back, there's been a pack of cigarettes stashed in the console of his car.

He tries not to, but sometimes, one of the sticks finds its way into his hand anyway, the tip always lit.

It only happens when things get stressful, and if Jason's good at anything, it's handling stress. But he's in the car and Tim's across from him, looking like he's coming down from something, eyes glazed over in thought as he looks out the window.

Tim's not a user. Jason would've noticed. But Jason's looking at the kid's chest anyway, just to make sure that there's still air there, that he's still breathing, and the comparison nearly knocks him over in his seat.

"What are you doing?" Tim asks suddenly, awakened from his reverie when he spots the cigarette and lighter Jason's got in his hands. They're at a red light, so Jason tells himself it's fine.

"Smoking," he replies, flicking the lighter, and he surprises himself with how slick the answer came.

A trail of white is quick to snake through the car. It's searching the upper layers beneath the ceiling, and Jason thinks he should put down the windows before it starts getting dense. He almost presses the button when he thinks better of it.

Tim sits quiet, but he's snapped his attention back on the window. It's not because the kid's trying to zone out again. It's because he doesn't like cigarettes. He doesn't say it, but Jason can tell.

Tim is the kind of person who doesn't speak up when something is inconveniencing him. It's apparent by the way he couldn't bring himself to turn off the office fan earlier. He's too shy or too polite or too self-sacrificial, and Jason is curious what will happen if he's a bit rude to the kid. It's like a science experiment, Jason left wondering what will happen, if the results will line up with his hypothesis.

So, he leaves the windows shut, and he waits to see if the kid has it in him to do something as simple as press a button.

They turn onto another street, and all Tim has done is let out a small cough, reluctant, like his lungs have betrayed him. It's obvious the smoke's bothering him, but he's stubbornly silent.

Jason's stubborn too.

After a while, though, the white wisps thicken into clouds, and it'll start to bother their eyes if it keeps up—a driving hazard if Jason ever saw one. He waits just another second, just to see. But Tim doesn't budge.

Disappointed, Jason sighs and hits the button himself, smoke traded with street air the moment the windows roll down.

Tim failed his test.

It was a mean one. Jason knows it. But it was easy, and he was hoping Tim could pass, could break out of his shell for one second and be selfish. That's what Roy would've done: He would've pitched a fit about the smoke and chucked the cigarette clear out the window, because in all honesty, that would be fair.

But Jason's learning quickly that Tim is the opposite of Roy.

Tim is the kind of person who needs a partner who's gentle and considerate. Things Jason isn't. And Jason is the type who needs a partner with guts and just enough unpredictability to keep him on his toes. It's not hard to find the discrepancy there.

Jason blows out another cloud of smoke before flicking the cigarette out the window himself.

He's gained some insight into his new partner, for better or for worse, because it hints at a truth that's been dawning on him all day.

This partner thing he and Tim have—It just isn't going to work out.

* * *

*Robinson Crusoe _is written by Daniel Defoe (1719). Aside from the book's title mirroring that of Robinson Park (which exists in canon Gotham), in the novel itself, the protagonist befriends a man who he names "Friday." The years given in the opening lines can be read in army time as 16:32 which equates to 4:32 p.m._


	5. Cottonwood Trees

_AN: Gonna be honest, this chapter's really heavy. I promise the next one is a lot lighter, though (Dick gets a lot of screentime. It's gonna be good.), and until then, I hope this update isn't not too info-dumpy..._

* * *

 **Chapter Five: Cottonwood Trees**

Jason likes to drive.

It's more than just a superiority complex, Tim's realized, but something he actually enjoys doing, like he's in control when he's got the pedals and the wheel and nothing can touch him. But there are moments when it's as if the man is running from something instead, determined to keep himself in check because he's afraid of what might happen if he doesn't.

Regulation states drivers should check their rear-view mirrors every five to eight seconds. And Tim has noticed Jason checks his every four.

It's always small things like that, indiscernible to most people yet always there if they look hard enough, if they only watch. And watching—That was something Tim did a lot on the farm.

Now, he finds himself watching Jason, trying to figure him out. There's something about him that's off. He doesn't know why, but there is, and it's that mystery that keeps Tim in the car or the office or that grungy apartment he goes home to at night.

He doesn't watch Jason all the time, though. Sometimes, the view outside the car window catches his attention more.

It's all city streets and smog, same as from childhood, with trash sitting beneath the curbs and dreary clouds rending the sky. There's the preschool, the mall, the harbor, and the fire station. That bus stop over there Tim remembers taking to university, and the other one he remembers taking to the police academy against his parents' wishes.

Tim told them he wanted to be a cop a long time back, back in high school when things were mostly good, but they'd both looked at him and said, "Tim, you can't make money that way." They made it sound like they were pinching pennies and just happened to have nannies and maids lying around. But, regardless, he went to university like they wanted him to. Chemistry. Physics. The works.

They never checked his schedule to notice he had the classes stacked flawlessly, just so he could simultaneously enroll at the police academy with Conner without them knowing. The university courses lined up to make him the explosives specialist that they needed so badly at the MPD (Conner had mentioned it once.), and with many sleepless nights and part-time jobs under his belt, Tim managed to pass them all.

He got away with the lie too. Mom and Dad didn't realize what he'd done until he was already in Metropolis working under a certain Clark Kent.

It's been three years, and they're still convinced the Kents ruined him. What they don't realize is it's the other way around.

By now, fifteen minutes have passed and Jason's pulled up to an intersection. They're on their way to another one of the bombing sites. Considering his partner, Tim doubts there'll be much in the way of a lead; Jason's already been there once, and it's becoming clear the man's good at what he does.

It leaves Tim in the passenger seat with little to mull over past the scenery outside the window.

The car is still stopped at the light, and Tim can't keep himself from taking in the jade leaves of a tree on the sidewalk. It's a scrawny thing that looks like it can't support a single bird on its branches. There really are no birds, not even a nest perched between the boughs. Tim's already looked.

A lot of trees are like that in Gotham, weak and flimsy and nothing like the strong cottonwood next to the Kent's farm house. The tree's a behemoth, still there after its twenty years of service, standing at attention with its branches brushing up against the side of the house like its going for an embrace that never quite reaches. It sits right beneath the window of the room Tim and Conner split over summers, and they snuck down it sometimes when they were sure everyone else was asleep.

There wasn't much to do at the farm back then—still isn't, but they'd slip over to the neighbor's cornfield and try to scare each other between the stalks, far away enough that no one could hear if one of them succeeded. And when that got boring, they'd walk the country road for a good mile, kicking up dirt and turning over rocks just to hear the earth move beneath them.

That was back when they'd just started middle school, a bit rowdy and thrill-seeking, testing themselves to slink back into the house without anyone noticing. Pa Kent never caught them, but sometimes, they'd return to find Clark had flown back from Metropolis, sitting on the steps with the porchlight on and an eyebrow raised because they'd forgotten the cottonwood blooms in June, the white fluff evident on their clothes and in their hair.

But unlike Tim, Conner never loved the farm. It's not something he ever really voiced, but it wasn't hard to tell.

He was Clark's son. That's what the paperwork says. But Lois has always been Clark's soulmate, and Conner wasn't Lois' son. Jon is, but Conner… He was just the kid from a failed marriage in Gotham, New Jersey. The Kents loved him still. Lois and Jon did too. That didn't make him any less of a black sheep though, and maybe that's why he and Tim got along so well.

Conner talked about it in vague terms if ever, always hiding it behind a smile and a joke, but Tim asked him directly once after a few years' worth of summers. They'd stopped sneaking out by then, content just sitting in the tree outside the window and listening to the night. But Tim asked him still…if he was really all right with Tim being absorbed so completely into his family when Conner was struggling to fit in.

The reply came fast.

"Nah, doesn't bother me none," he answered through a straw of hay. Conner thought the girls liked that sort of thing, and Tim didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise. It was the middle of the night anyway, just him and Tim, so how he looked didn't really matter. "It's better when you're here, actually," Conner continued casually as he pulled at a branch only to watch it fly back into place, "I don't really fit anywhere. But you're my best friend, I guess, so if we're both here and you fit, then it's kinda like I do too."

He cracked a joke then, same as always, and the moment dissolved.

Looking back on it, that's probably why Conner was so adamant about being a cop, trying to prove himself to his dad. He never got the type of approval he wanted from him, not until it was too late.

Clark regrets that. He doesn't say it, but it's obvious anyway—at least to Tim, because he carries regrets too when it comes to Conner.

They were all Tim had on his mind his last day before coming to Gotham, wandering around the fields, a little dazed, before nightfall came and he'd found his way back to his and Conner's spot in the tree. He didn't do anything, just sat and listened to the crickets and the way the leaves crackled in the wind. Jon found him after a while and hunkered down beside him, looking a bit confused, but he stayed nonetheless.

Neither said anything. There was no point, since Tim knew Jon was too young to know why he was out there that night, too young to remember all the times he and Conner had sat on that same branch and watched the stars pass them by…

"Hey, kid," Jason's voice brings him back. That's right. They're still at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn.

"What's so interesting out there?" the man asks, and Tim doesn't know what to say. He's still looking through the glass at the sad tree outside, its roots choked out by the sidewalk, and he can't think of anything else.

"Just watching the birds," he decides. Jason's eyes burn into him for another second like he knows it's a lie, but the gaze doesn't last.

"Light's green," Tim mutters.

They pull away.

* * *

"Welcome back," Dick chirps happily.

The tone is jarring considering how quiet the car ride with Tim was, but their trips have been that way all week. So, Jason takes the shift in stride, dumping— _placing_ his jacket on his chair.

Gotham weather is the most unpredictable kind, the wind picking up randomly from the Atlantic and tossing in hot or cold air on whimsy. Today, mother nature decided she wants icicles, and so, the fan has been turned off—a good thing for Tim—and the AC's finally figured it's cold enough to start running. Its vents are purring from its spot in the window.

"Any luck at the dock?" Dick inquires from his own desk, watching the pair take their seats.

"No," they both reply in unison, and there's this odd moment where they look at each other funny. Jason's especially surprised, because…is Tim starting to rub off on him?

"Uh…no," Jason restarts, still eying Tim but forcing his attention back onto Dick. "They're already rebuilding the area where the explosion happened, so even if there was something I missed, the evidence is long gone."

"Ah, I hear ya." Dick pulls up his coffee as he gives a considering nod. "Businesses have to get back on their feet after something like that. Still, I wish we could keep up the yellow tape a little while longer. I've got a homicide I've been trying to crack lately—took place in a factory—and they kicked me out after only a day. 'Protecting trade secrets,' they said." Dick's eyes thin skeptically. "Pretty sure the victim's boss is hiding something, though…"

"That's no surprise," Jason replies plainly, arm propped up on the back of his chair. "You wear overalls with polka dots. I wouldn't trust you either."

Dick scowls, but at least Tim's biting back a grin. The kid never smiles. It's something Jason has picked up on.

"Hey," Dick's rejoins a minute later, the crude humor already forgotten. (He's got the memory of a goldfish when it comes to people giving him grief.) "It's Saturday tomorrow. You gonna show up this week, Jay?"

"Yeah, I'll be there," the man mutters, attention claimed by the papers on his desk. "Heard a lot of people can't come, and I can't miss two weeks in a row."

"...Miss what?"

Jason perks up at the question.

Tim looks so innocent sitting there at his desk, a wee lamb, and Jason can't help but take advantage of it. He leans forward, just enough to seem threatening. "That's right. You're new here." He tuts, shaking his head. "Poor thing. I hope you can survive the hazing…"

"Hazing?" For a first-grade detective, Tim isn't very good at hiding his horror. Jason awards himself a mental pat on the back.

"He's just teasing, Tim," Dick spoils, shooting a glare at Jason. And then, naturally, Dick decides the prank deserves recompense, an idea flashing in the man's eyes—one he thinks is good but is actually awful in practice. "Hey, why don't you take him, Jay?"

That earns a wince.

"You know how the streets get tricky in that part of Downtown. He might get lost on his own."

The kid's new to Gotham—as much as he grew up here—so the comment isn't unfounded. But Dick should take him instead and stop pushing people into commitments they don't want to make.

Jason spends a moment mulling that last thought over.

Dick is a clever guy, and Jason's sure that's the angle he's working: trying to coerce Jason into spending more time with his partner.

He'd rather not. Their tense car rides are enough for him, thank you. But Dick has already cast the die, so Jason sighs. "Fine," he relents, not looking at Tim. "Meet me here tomorrow morning at seven, and do me a favor, will you? Don't be late."


	6. Breakfast at Alfred's

**Chapter Six: Breakfast at Alfred's**

The next morning comes faster than Jason would like. Tim's at the police station on time, and after twenty minutes of sitting silent in the car, they're parking on the side of a street in northern West Harlow.*

It's a pretty quiet area, far away enough from the riverfront that it's not yet crowded out by skyscrapers and office buildings. It allows barely enough space for restaurants and stores, and the twisting roads are lined with cars, parking not an option for most places. But it's quaint, trees canopying the thin streets with their leaves waving gentle hello.

Jason spends a moment in the driver's seat, watching sunbeams sprinkle through the natural awning above. They'll probably come back to find leaves in the windshield wipers, but that's normal for a Saturday morning here. There's something relaxing about that.

Tim is fidgeting a tiny bit in the passenger seat, though, enough that Jason notices. The kid knows he was just joking around about the hazing thing, but the more they lounge in the car, the more uneasy Tim gets, eyeing the road outside like he's half-expecting it to break open and devour them. Jason almost lets the silence drag on a while longer, but he pops open the door ( _I'll cut him some slack today._ ) and steps out onto the pavement.

It doesn't take long to realize what they're really doing here, as Jason pulls back a door and enters one of the street-side shops.

The restaurant's bell jingles cheerfully.

Weekly breakfasts were Dick's idea, naturally, and it's a long-held tradition, one that emerged around the time Cass joined their unit. She was quiet (even more so back then), Jason was busy dishing out sass and reorganizing whatever crossed his path, and Bruce? Well, he was in desperate need of being dragged out of "The Cave." Thus, Dick took it upon himself to arrange gettogethers, and five years later, here they stand at Alfred's, the only restaurant Bruce would agree to—for whatever reason.

That confidence is a mystery Dick's been trying to solve every week for years. He's convinced Alfred must be someone special for Bruce to trust him so much, and the old man (Bless his soul.) plays along, offering up scraps of his own past intermingled with fiction. Dick takes whatever he can get, though, trying to parse truth and fantasy; it's a game the two play.

So, Dick is here, early as usual, hunched forward in his chair as he digests whatever thing Alfred has decided to share today. "I think this one's true, Alf. If you were an MI-7 operative, it would explain a lot of things." Dick nods. "Yeah, I think it's true."

 _That's the craziest one yet_ , Jason scoffs, making his way over to the cozy table at the end of the diner.

Alfred has posed many bizarre reasons for how he ended up here in Jersey: He's claimed to be everything from a field medic in the British army to an aspiring actor, teacher, butler—The list goes on. None of them have ever been proven (Dick has used up an embarrassing amount of resources trying.), and at this point, the man's convinced Alfred has changed his name somehow to lay low, covering by running an antiquated diner in the middle of nowhere West Harlow, Gotham City…

Actually, that MI-7 bit is sounding more possible by the second.

But Alfred only proffers a noncommittal raise of his eyebrow as he sets down another platter at their table. (Dick always orders for everyone. It's likely to buy more time with their ever-elusive restaurateur.) "Perhaps, Master Richard," Alfred offers cryptically, eyebrow still raised, "you may be onto something…."

The encouragement only makes Dick more stumped, scrutinizing Alfred like the answer is hidden somewhere beneath the man's lapels. However, before their silent battle can go any further, Jason and Tim have the pair's attention.

* * *

"You made it!" Dick chirrups.

The man was looking stressed a minute ago, but the expression is already gone, back to his chipper grin and easy vigor. It helps Tim feel a bit more at ease in the new environment.

A restaurant was the last place he was anticipating, but it's the best of all the possibilities that kept him up last night, so Tim's not going to complain. If nothing else, it explains why Dick was so interested in learning his favorite breakfast foods three days ago, as there are plates already lining the table. It all smells comfortably familiar, the homey scents lazing a bit before settling in the bar-stools that lead up to the cash register.

Overall, the restaurant seems like a quiet place that doesn't get much traffic; there's hardly anyone here, although there's a certain appeal to that: It adds a sweetness to the simple wood tables and well-loved booths that sleep beneath the window, soaking in the sun rays like content cats. Everything is amazingly tidy too, Tim notices, not a speck of dust hidden in the grouting of the tile floors. The cleanliness is something Jason would respect, but Tim knows the culprit is likely someone else, as there's an unfamiliar face standing beside Dick. The person is English from the nine words Tim overheard upon entering, and he seems nice enough, grandfatherly with a glowing kindness in his eyes—despite the deadpan.

The stranger's attention is immediately drawn to Tim. "Am I to assume this is the new detective you mentioned, Master Richard?"

"Uh huh," Dick answers, chatting with the Englishman like they're old friends, "first-grade and everything. Can you believe it? For someone his age." He shakes his head in disbelief.*

"That's quite the accomplishment, I hear," comes the tactful reply. Whoever this man is, he's smooth, easily following the compliment with an introduction, "Alfred Pennyworth. I hope your stay in Gotham is enjoyable—however brief."

"Thanks. I'm Tim. Tim Drake."

"It's a pleasure," Alfred voices with a faint smile, turning to the other newcomer, "and Master Jason is here as well, I see. We sorely missed having you last Saturday."

"Yeah, Roy was in town for the week, so I had to take him to the airport that morning," Jason explains, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair.

Tim's not sure what else to do, so he takes the adjacent spot—a bit reluctantly. But Dick's across from him if things get uncomfortable, so Tim tells himself it's fine. Besides, Jason is his partner for the next eight weeks, and as much as Tim would rather melt into the restaurant's floor, Jason's someone he has to get to know.

In the time it takes for them to get settled, Alfred has wandered back into the kitchen, and the silent girl, the one Tim has seen around the office, has percolated in to replace him, claiming the last of the four seats at their table.

Dick has yet to notice.

"Wait, you mean _Speedy_ was in town last week?! Why didn't you tell me, Jay?!"

Deciding this is a conversation he best not contribute to, Tim peels the napkin off from around his silverware, the utensils already on the table. "Speedy…?" he echoes dubiously to himself, and just like that, the whole group's eyes are on him like the plague.

"Dick, don't…" Tim hears Jason groan next to him, but whatever's about to happen is already well underway, Dick instantly giddy as he scoots his chair closer.

"That's right!" he gasps, "you haven't heard the story! Oh boy, is it a good one!" If Dick could look more excited, he would be, and Jason is analyzing Tim's silverware like he's wondering if the butter knife is sharp enough to do Dick in.

"He's Roy Harper by day," the man starts with dramatic flair, "road terror by night."

Dick's voice drops a smidge, and he's moving his fingers to mimic snowflakes, visual aids. "It was a cold, winter night in Gotham—back when Jay and Roy were still rookies. I was on my way to interview a suspect, innocently driving down a stretch of snowy highway when, all of a sudden, _VOOM_!"

("Not sound effects too…" Jason works out from where he's got his head in his hands.)

Oblivious, Dick continues. "It's not my job to ticket people, but I was driving one of the police cruisers that night, right? Just to put some pressure on my suspect when I pulled in the drive. Anyway, I'm sitting there thinking, 'Man, that car could've done me in right there on the 95 and not even noticed,' so I turn on the siren—" Dick looks like he's considering reenacting the noise, but thankfully, he leaves it up to imagination, "—I eventually catch up. The car's pulled over, and I've hopped out—you know the drill. And just who do I find when the window rolls down?"

It's not hard to guess.

"None other than Mr. Roy Harper, rookie blue and racer extraordinaire! I'm already shocked, as you can imagine, but I come to find out our hotshot's not alone. Nope, far from it," Dick waggles a finger at the person seated next to Tim. "Jay's right there with him, looking like he's suffering from whiplash and having teatime with death."

As if to save the man some dignity, Dick turns his attention back to his main audience, namely Tim, "Jason's a fussy driver—You've probably put that together by now.—so usually, he's pretty adamant about being the one behind the wheel. But that night, by some divinely-righted stroke of bad luck, Roy convinced Jason to let him take his car for a spin, and with that very decision, the legend of Speedy…was born."

Dick leans back, looking satisfied that he's raked Jason's self-worth over the coals, and Tim's trying to stifle the laugh building in his throat—just so he won't get chewed out by his partner later. _So that's why he's so protective of the car…_

"Roy's bad, I get it," Jason grumbles when he's recovered, "but I'd rather die than drive with you or Black."

Tim glances at the silent girl sitting beside Dick, and he guesses "Black" must be her. She's wearing only that color clothing—and it's not the uniform for once—so it makes sense how she earned the moniker.

"I don't think I'm _that_ bad of a driver, Jay. You're just picky," Dick pauses as he sends a look to the girl next to him, "but I guess I get your point about one of us… Remember how Duke down at the M.C.S. got his nickname? Poor guy's never gonna drive with you again, Cass," the man snorts, "not unless you start turning on your signal instead of just ramming head-on into the other lane."

The girl—Cass—doesn't say anything, but she smiles for the first time since Tim's been there. There's something slightly evil about it, though, like she knows perfectly well she's a monster behind the wheel, and Tim decides he's just fine having Jason chauffeur him.*

"So, you've _all_ got nicknames?" Tim poses instead, leaning forward a bit over his drink.

"Oh yeah," Dick agrees, "better study up, kiddo. But I guess some intros can't hurt in the meantime." The man glances at the other two at the table, Cass apparently indifferent to the idea while Jason has a dark look on his face that Tim can't place. He suddenly seems drained, scrutinizing the ice melting in his glass.

"I was Bruce's first," Dick begins with a hand over his heart, like the name's something solemn that he's greatly proud of. "I'm also the best of us, so I'm 'Goldie.'"

"The jury's still out on that title, actually," Jason interrupts with a grim smirk. He hasn't looked away from the glass. "I'm still routing for 'McMullet' myself."

The remark earns an eye roll from Dick (Had he had longer hair at one point?), but he continues, "Bruce is 'Bats,' cause he's always stuck in that cave of his, you know. And this here's 'Black.'" Dick sticks a thumb in the girl's direction, and she gives a short nod of agreement.

"Don't think you two've met yet," Jason offers blandly, although Tim's smart enough to have figured out who she is, "her real name's Cass."

"Cass," Tim repeats, trying to ascribe it to this new person, testing the way it sounds and the way it's familiar. "I've got a friend back home with that name."

The sentence slips out before he can stop it. It's one of those knee-jerk statements Tim thought was only in his head, an observation solely for him, but it's out there in the open and he'd pull it back if he could. The comment's a dumb one, he realizes belatedly. There are thousands of girls named Cass in the world, not just the one he knew growing up, but by now, he's only thinking of those times spent mucking around in high school with her and Bart and…and Conner. It'd been the four of them back then. Things haven't been the same since.

No one at the table's taken a jab at Tim over the remark, though, and Dick covers harmlessly with a, "do you now?" as he cuts into his pancakes. It's the first time Tim's mentioned anything about himself, and he's betting the man's curious. "What's she like?"

"She's nice…" he answers smally, folding his napkin into squares like it's the most interesting thing in the world. It's something Jason would do, he thinks, and suddenly Tim feels like he understands the man a whole lot more.

"Damian," comes a new voice, and everyone's attention is drawn to the previously-silent girl sitting among them. Cass is busy looking at Dick, though, and it revives the conversation.

"That's right! I didn't finish my list," the man grins, seeming grateful for the transition, and he elaborates, "Damian is Bruce's kid. He's grown up a lot since I was first here, and he's pretty serious nowadays. Anyway, he's got a thing for animals, watching birds and stuff, so he's 'Robin.' But don't call him that, though," Dick twists his mouth to the side, "he's not very on board with the idea yet, but one day…"

Dick takes a thoughtful bite of his food, apparently done with his explanation. Evidently, he's convinced Damian is the only person he missed before, and Tim's silently wondering why Jason was left out. Maybe the man doesn't have a nickname outside of "Jay." Now that Tim thinks about it, Jason would probably knock Dick's teeth out if he tried to force something stupid on him.

"You're gonna be here for a few more weeks. Right, Tim?" Dick's back with cunning in his eyes, "we should probably get to working on one for you too. Got any hobbies? The weirder, the better."

Tim shakes his head with a faint smile. He's pretty normal. Maybe too much so.

"He's like Damian." Tim's attention shoots to Jason, who's taken to swirling his ice around in his glass instead of just staring at it. "The kid likes watching birds too—even when they're none there."

It's a strange thing to recall but only cause it's personal. To be honest, Tim's shocked the man remembers.

"A Robin Jr., huh?" Dick shrugs. "Well, Damian's not super fond of his nickname. Maybe he'd be willing to share—"

"No." Everyone's eyes snap to Cass. Anything she utters is suddenly biblical, a voice from above.

"He's Red's…" she continues vaguely, observing a spot somewhere between Tim and Jason. "He's Red's Robin."

The weight of the comment is heavy, like God has spoken and the air has suddenly thickened and swallowed them all. Tim doesn't look at the person beside him, and he's pretty certain Jason doesn't look at him either. It's a silly thing, the nickname, but it pulls at the invisible string tying them together.

They're partners.

It's been a week, and the gravity is only just setting in. It means their each other's best friends. It means they've got each other's backs.

Tim knew Conner for years before they were ever officially teammates, before he could say he trusted him so fully, and now he's supposed to have the same thing with someone he hardly knows. It's a deep thought, and it sits dense in his chest.

All at once he's returned to so many different places: He's back in the cottonwood with Conner, talking about life and the world, back walking the dirt paths with him outside the farm and turning over stones like it made some kind of difference when it didn't.

And he's back at the funeral, staring at the coffin and telling himself it should've been him instead…

Although Dick's efforts that morning are noteworthy, the remainder of their time at Alfred's passes in gloomy silence, the jovial mood dead.

Tim doesn't speak for the rest of the day.

Jason doesn't either.

* * *

 _*I have a street map of Gotham I try to reference when I can, and the streets on the north side of West Harlow do look pretty confusing, true to Dick's claim last chapter._

 _*There are three levels within the detective rank. These distinctions are gained by recommendation and are usually awarded to senior detectives who have the most experience. Third-grade is the lowest while first-grade is the highest._

 _*Our folks in blue are typically very safe drivers. Roy just got a little too excited, and Cass... Let's be real: the image of Cass perpetually convinced she's in_ Gran Turismo 5 _while Duke is shrieking about the turn signal, because if he's gonna get killed, it's not gonna be over a minor traffic violation... That's a headcanon I'm gonna cherish._


	7. A Talk with Roy

**Chapter Seven: A Talk with Roy**

 _(Week Two)_

Jason blows out another ashen cloud, watching it split into coils that get lost in the night air. He's taken to smoking more than he should these past two weeks, but it's so much easier getting lost in the feeling of fire burning his lungs, scorching it more and more with each breath. It's easier getting lost in that because there are always thoughts burning his brain, and Jason likes the alternative a whole lot more.

He brings the cigarette back to his lips and watches the tip glow an angry orange, a brightness about it that sears a hole in his vision, but he keeps his sight focused there anyway, admiring the way the embers smolder as they slowly turn grey, dark as charcoal.

" _So_ ," Roy starts. There's that odd distortion to his voice that comes with the phone call, and it stings a bit when Jason glances at the sidewalk next to him to find himself alone, just him and Roy on speaker as he takes another drag.

"So," Jason repeats, the phone far away enough that he knows Roy won't hear he's smoking. His old partner doesn't know about that habit of his, and Jason's fine having just one person fooled into thinking he's less wrecked than he really is. It's why he's called him tonight after work, content listening to someone from his past talk happily about their life and why it's worth living it. Roy's like family, really, and it's nice having a piece of who Jason used to be trapped in a bottle like that, separated enough by distance and time that it's been preserved. It's something he can look back on like a photograph, something he can interact with and say he's the same as he used to be.

"How's the new partner?" Roy asks, and the delusion crumbles a bit.

Jason breathes in again, appreciating the stretch running along his diaphragm as he inhales more smoke. "Fine," he exhales.

Roy knows him well enough to interpret what that answer actually means, and he doesn't hide it, replying with a light "uh-oh." The guy's been drinking something the whole call in between his ramblings, and he must have decided to chug a good chunk of it one go, probably in anticipation of some deeper topic. Jason can hear the clink of a glass being set on a counter. That sound's a one-way ticket out of that exact conversation, so Jason's quick to jump on it. "Where are you even?"

"At one of those late-night cafes," comes the answer, "there's a ton on the streets over here right off the beach, and you can just—Uh, none for me thanks.—" (Someone must've offered him something.) "—you can just sit out and people-watch all night long if you want."

Jason hums, loud enough to tell him he's listening.

"Yeah, and there's this one shack that's got discounts on coffee, 'specially for us boys in blue."

"A mistake if I've ever heard one," Jason scoffs through a puff of smoke, but he lets Roy keep going. It's why Jason's kept in touch all these years, after all, because Roy keeps things light; he likes having fun and allows Jason to dodge the topics he doesn't want to discuss. And if Jason's not in much mood to talk, Roy can hold a conversation on his own, like speaking is synonymous with breathing to him. Jason's just fine with that, and he thinks maybe it's because he was conditioned to listening with all those years of sitting beside Mom when she was on one of her trips.

But Roy's different. The guy's already been there, down waist deep in heroin before he managed to get clean. Now, he's just someone who's high on life, ready to chat about whatever, whenever. It's the kind of high he'll never come down from, Jason's sure, and so Jason's all right listening to his friend reveal those small, irrelevant things he discovers that somehow make life good.

He's been talking for a few minutes now, and Jason takes it all in, closing his eyes and focusing on the noises crinkling through the speaker, weary beach-goers shuffling in in the background, conversations floating, and chair legs squeaking along the floors. If he focuses hard enough, it's like he can even hear the ocean somewhere, and it makes a peaceful image.

Another bundle of smoke eases into the air, getting caught somewhere beneath the overhang of the now-closed shop that Jason sits outside of on the sidewalk. There's rain pouring down in waves, hitting the fabric of the covering and sounding in short snaps like rubber bands; a growl of thunder rolls through the streets. But Jason remains sitting against the cool wall and listens to the distant sounds of a scene almost a thousand miles away. It's almost as if he's not here in Gotham, smoking outside while quiet puddles grow up around him.

"…and guess what?" Roy keeps going. He was talking about everything from Kori to his new computer a few minutes ago, and Jason pulls his phone a bit closer to keep it out of the encroaching rain.

"What?" he offers and leans back against the wall, his cigarette following.

"I could be jumping the gun on this," Roy says, "but I might be making sergeant soon. All that back breaking in Gotham's finally paid off, I think; you wouldn't believe how easy it is here by comparison."

"Nice," Jason comments, admiring the way the streetlights catch on the rain like gold, "but you still can't boss me around with a rank like that, so don't let it go to your head."

Roy works out a few sarcastic laughs before settling back down. "But really, how's everyone doing back over there on Bats' team? You all getting along alright?"

"Yeah, we're fine," Jason replies, "Dick misses you, though. Wouldn't shut up about you at Alfred's a few days ago."

"Really? What kinda stuff did he say about me? Hopefully nothing bad."

"Nah," Jason exhales, letting the smoke escape in a quick row, "nothing too bad, _Speedy_."

Roy audibly stiffens on the other end of the line. "Oh. _Oh_. Um, you know, that story, it's—" A cough comes, and Roy's voice slips into the background. "—uh. Check please."

Jason snorts and waits for Roy to put the phone back to his ear. "You know," he starts once he's got his friend's attention again, "if Dick brings up that story one more time, you're gonna be losing a kidney. I don't care how far you run."

"Alright, alright," Roy laughs, although he sounds a bit unnerved. ( _Good_ , Jason thinks.) "But you know, I'm curious about this new guy you've got with you. He got an embarrassing nickname yet?"

"No," Jason lies, tapping the ash from the tip of his cigarette, "he doesn't have one."

Roy groans in disappointment. "Darn. Those stories are always fun."

"Not when you've heard them repeated fifty times, Roy."

"Noted," the man chuckles nervously, "I'll text Dick and plead for him to spare me my kidney."

"You do that," Jason mumbles, observing a patch of still-orange embers getting suffocated by the rain outside of his shelter. Meanwhile, a flash of lightning flickers, splayed white on the cloud ceiling above the street, and a bout of thunder follows in an underwhelming yawn.

"Anyway," comes Roy's voice through the phone again, "I should probably get going. It's getting late."

"You're such a grandpa."

"Hey," Roy excuses, "I've got work early, and I need my beauty sleep. Besides, not all of us can stay up all night like you can." There's a short pause while he takes a drink. "Seriously, do you even sleep?"

"No," comes the truth, followed by the joke, "still out looking for blood. You know me."

"Do yourself a favor and stop reading _Dracula_ , okay? I don't care how good you think Bram Stoker is."

Jason shrugs in a way he hopes makes it through the phone. "To each his own, and you remembered the author's name this time: I think there's hope for you yet." Roy makes a set of faked gagging sounds on the other end, and Jason spares an eye-roll. "Anyway, I'll let you go. I've got stuff to do."

He doesn't really: All Jason has to do is lay awake on the couch and do his best to ignore the sloshing of car wheels passing by on the street outside his apartment window. They're always just passing through—the cars—but it doesn't change the fact that one of them might stop, that there may be the splintering of the door being kicked in and a flash of bullets. They're only flashes; that's all bullets are reduced to in the end. Because light travels faster than sound, and he'll be dead before the noise ever reaches.

Jason stifles his cigarette on the pavement, the stick crushed weakly between the two forces as flecks of cinders escape, and he imagines he's smothering that paranoid thought with the action. Paranoia isn't something he's counting on tonight, because it's raining, lightning flashing like gunfire and thunder revving, nature's version of a six-cylinder. To be honest, he'll probably be able to sleep just fine tonight—first time in a while.

Jason's still waiting for Roy to end the call, though, but it doesn't end quite the way he was anticipating.

"That new kid you've got with you," Roy starts suddenly, and there's another clink as he sets his glass back down, "you give him a chance, alright, Jay? You're not the easiest person to work with."

Jason casts a lengthy look at his phone as if Roy can somehow feel his gaze's intensity. But there's nothing more on the other side, save the white noise of someone else ordering for their table.

"Yeah, yeah," Jason sighs in the end, tugging at his hair in a way he's sure looks tired (It's how he feels.), "later, Roy."

"Later."

The call ends, leaving Jason back alone on the street. He rests his head in his hand for a moment, and he memorizes the rain through his fingers, the way the drops hit the puddles, the way they form hundreds upon hundreds of rings that cancel each other out in a meaningless pattern. The world reflects back in it like a warped mirror: He can make out the streetlamp across the street, the clouds and overhang above, but it's all broken down into patches of light that are minced and split and foreign.

Jason watches the lights twist in the rain for a minute longer, reveling in the damp air that the rain brings as he thinks. Eventually, he releases another sigh, smoothing back his hair before snatching his phone from the sidewalk.

He should've told Roy about the nickname. Jason knows it, but the name's something personal.

Red Hood's personal.


	8. Things From the Past

_AN: Still don't know how I feel about this one, but I've held onto it long enough._

* * *

 **Chapter Eight: Things from the Past**

It's like receiving a jolt from a defibrillator, Tim's chest jerking forward, and instantly, he's breathing new air.

He's somewhere else now, left staring at the pavement that's suddenly beneath him. The cement's relatively new, nothing interesting, but it's all Tim's eyes can focus on, because it's the only thing that's processing lucidly right now. Everything else—every noise, sight, touch—is coming blurred, a camera that can't focus. The vague sounds swirling about catch his attention still, because Tim knows they're important somehow, like someone's calling for him through a layer of water and he can't quite break the surface. A voice is there, though. It is. But as much as he knows it's important, Tim is also aware that he doesn't want to hear it.

"Tim!" the name finally arrives, and it's like he's been shocked again.

Everything clears with a nauseating clarity the moment Tim reopens his eyes. Four digits are instantly visible, screams are audible, and the panic—The panic is tangible. The numbers on the timer are shrinking; nines turn to eights and eights turn to sevens. But the wires and vials don't simplify, instead seeming more complicated with every change of the clock.

It's the only thing Tim's ever been afraid of. And here it is, staring him right in the face.

Tim's specialized in explosives. He can do everything from ballistics to arsons; analyzing rubble and the remains of blasts are cakewalks. But at the end of the day, live-wire bombs—Those go to bomb squad because he's a detective, and as much as Tim knows how to deactivate them, anything from the most complicated bomb to the simplest IED, he wishes explosives were the last thing he was familiar with.

Because when Tim saw the timer, he knew there wasn't enough time to call for bomb squad.

And when he saw the bomb, he knew there _wasn't enough time_.

"Can you do it?" comes the voice again, and Tim turns to see the face of his best friend, a seriousness in Conner's eyes that only makes it more apparent that they're here in New Troy, the heart of Metropolis, with an explosive a foot in front of them.

Tim can't do more than look at him, memorizing his face with that terrifying accuracy that comes when "tomorrow" is a question instead of a guarantee. Conner is the spitting image of Clark, so much so that it's scary, but Bart always said he and Tim were the ones who looked alike, focused on the shared blue eyes, black hair, and pale skin that never seems to age. "Are you sure you're not brothers?" Bart would ask with faked scrutiny, earning him a headshake from Cass and a smirk from Conner. They didn't look that similar, truly, but if Tim had to pick a person to be brothers with, it still stands that it would be Conner.

That's what hits Tim in the moment it costs him to take in every piece of his best friend's face. The nostalgia strengthens when his eyes drift over Conner's shoulder to the street behind him. 1938 Sullivan Place is that way, the apartment Clark and Lois share, and the Daily Planet building where Lois works is just visible over the skyline. It's all a painful reminder of how close to home this whole situation is.

"Tim," Conner repeats.

It reels Tim's attention back in. Only one second has ticked by in the instant it took for all those thoughts to process, like time itself has slowed down, but even then, time is still against them; it doesn't help solve the problem sitting a foot away.

There's only one thing they can do to solve that very problem. Tim knows it, and Conner must too. Tim can already see the idea in his friend's eyes, that grim determination Tim would trade his soul to remove. What comes next is something Tim would rather never hear, never face. But Connor says it, the words sharp in the mesh of someone screaming about the bomb and people panicking: "How far out is the harbor?"

 _You can't. It—Connor, you…_

The harbor's close enough. If one of them drove fast, it could work, but...

 _You won't come back._

Tim whirls back, and suddenly, Conner's gone. Vanished from where he was and—No. No, that's not right. The bomb's still there, all four digits suddenly changed to urgent zeroes, and Tim is alone, the buildings bending over him like a cage as he kneels there. He can't move, some invisible force caught around his legs, and the timer's beeping angrily, a spark of light and fire and noise.

It's like Tim can feel the shrapnel, a sharp pain that spikes along his spine like fire, as he's tossed backward onto the mattress.

He blinks once, just to make sure it's real and… He's back in his apartment in Gotham, the familiar cracked ceiling of his bedroom staring down at him while his legs are caught up in a bedsheet. Lightning's flashing outside, thunder booming, and all the things from his dream are translating. The family upstairs is fighting again, yelling about something that's probably not important, and the bedsprings are digging into his back like bits of molten metal.

There's still a distant ringing, though. It's an impulsive thought, the kind that's kin to superstition, but Tim sits up anyway, ignoring the uncomfortable way his sweat-soaked hair is sticking to his neck, and scans the room.

The sound's still going.

He rips off the blanket from around his legs and leaps to look under the bed, a bundle of leftover adrenaline and panic.

It's 6 o'clock.

Time to get up.

That's what his phone is telling him, having fallen through the crack between his bed and the wall. Tim spends a moment registering the sight and the normalcy of it all. A weary sigh leaves before he's maneuvering his arm to inch the device out. When the alarm's been turned off, it's all Tim can do to fall back onto the floor, too exhausted to stand.

 _That dream again…_

He tugs his damp hair out of his eyes in tired frustration, trying to calm the rapid way his chest is moving to take in oxygen. Another flash of lightning flickers, and it's only then that Tim realizes it's pouring outside, rain pelting the window and slipping through the shattered pane. A patch of carpet is growing wet beside him.

It's a rough neighborhood out here, and Tim thinks the crack in the window is from a stray bullet. He'll have to fix that, he thinks, but he can't bring himself to sit up. There's the scratchy carpet beneath him, the threads sitting coarse against his skin, and the family upstairs is still going at it, the walls and ceilings thin enough that he's certain the whole complex can hear them. He knows he can, every word audible against his best efforts to tune them out.

After a moment, Tim runs his hands up his face where his fingers settle in his hair, stifling a sigh.

Just seven more weeks of this.

He can make it.

* * *

A small gust of post-rain wind filters through the window screen. It's stirring memories of last night's storm, one that's since died down to nothing more than the smell of soaked concrete and damp leaves, and the cold exhorts Tim to hunker down behind a mound of stilled files. (He'd made a point to buy paperweights the other day.)

It's been two weeks and the Robinson case hasn't shown any signs of breaking. That doesn't mean work has stalled; everything from homicides to robberies is piling up on each desk in Himalayan fashion. Even with Tim taking on some of the load, everyone's still exhausted, sometimes pulling twenty-hour days, and coffee has since become everyone's best friend.

That caffeine-based alliance has encouraged Dick to appear in front of the pair, empty mug in hand and continuously warm smile on his face. "Want me to get you some more coffee?"

"Pass," comes Jason's reply. It's not rude; he's just busy, too absorbed in whatever case file he's looking at now (the questionable suicide of a "Felipe Garzonasa").

Dick takes the refusal for what it is and turns innocently to Tim, silently extending the same offer.

"I'm fine," Tim manages with something close to a smile. The expression is something he's not used to, but he's been finding is easier over the past few weeks of being back in a police station. He didn't know how much he missed it, getting lost in mysteries instead of dreams. And Wayne's unit—Mystery is something these people are filled with.

Dick's vanished by then, leaving Tim with the file in front of him. It's just one that's getting finalized, a report that's already been wrapped up but has gotten caught up in the transfer. Tim eyes it for a few minutes, scribbling out some notes half-heartedly before he slides it into a separate pile. He can hear Jason doing the same behind him, the scratch-scratch of pen making it hard to focus, and Tim's thinking about their last (and only) trip to Alfred's. There's something more there; Jason's been especially uneasy ever since then.

Ever since "Red"...

"Hey, Jason?"

A pair of eyes whirl in Tim's direction. It's another thing with Jason: He always responds lightning-fast, borderline skittish. It's something that's become more evident this past week, but no one else at the office seems to think much of how quickly Jason is to whip around at the slightest disturbance, hand always on his gun and smoothed-over panic always on his face.

It's a mystery.

Jason's raised a bored eyebrow, reminding Tim to say something. To be honest, Tim didn't really have anything in mind, and it's unsettling how little they really know about each other, the two textbook strangers. It almost feels too late to remedy that.

After a moment of Tim struggling to come up with something, Jason must figure the silence has gone far enough, his disinterest obvious. "You just like saying my name or something?"

"No, I—" An idea. "I just...was wondering why you stay in Gotham, that's all. You grew up here, right?"

If Jason could look more uninterested, Tim's guessing he would be. The man offers something close to a shrug, though, and Tim's surprised to see that Jason's at least considering the question. ( _So Gotham isn't the thing that's got him on edge. Not something from childhood either. What's bothering him then?_ )

The gears of Jason's chair groan as he reclines in thought. "Yeah, I grew up here," he starts. "And this city's a pit. I don't deny that. Curb appeal's a joke, and everything stinks to high heaven. Still, home is home, so here I am. Sometimes you just fit somewhere—even if it feels like you shouldn't." A hand waves. "Not like I expect you to know anything about that, considering how fast you were to jump ship to Metro."

Tim hates how he flinches a bit at that.

 _"You're my best friend, I guess, so if we're both here and you fit, then it's kinda like I do too."_

"Yeah," Tim mutters, suddenly quiet. "I guess I wouldn't know what that's like."

Silence reinvades, present enough that the faint air from this morning's storm sounds. It's continuing to drift in through the window, kissing the edges of the papers in sharp crackles. The quiet stretches long enough that Tim makes to turn back.

"Hey, kid?"

Tim's head snaps back to find Jason still there, eyes analytical and calm, but Tim can spot the tick Jason has that gives him away: Jason probably doesn't even know, but whenever he's grown uncomfortable, he holds his pen differently. It's always trapped between his thumb and index finger, the tip facing downward.

It's the same way he holds a cigarette.

Jason's eyes trail Tim's before he shakes his head with a snort. "Forget it. There's stuff to do."

Tim's not sure if he'd have been able to work up the courage to dig further, because a stack files begin sledding down the mountain of paperwork on Tim's desk and he's left scrambling to catch them. _Jason's right: Work first_ , he self-reprimands.

However, the next folder that finds its way in front of Tim only elicits listless interest. He's still thinking about why Jason's always so on edge, almost like he's—

Like he's paranoid.

Why that is, Tim has no clue. But regardless of why, it still stands that Jason's that way a lot: anxious, tense, like he's got a skeleton in the closet that he's determined not to let loose. It has Tim wondering if Jason's always like this or if it's just with him. Maybe his last partner ( _Roy, was it?_ ) was better at handling him. They sound close from what Dick's said, and Tim still doesn't know why Roy ever left. Could be part of the reason Jason's so untrusting—or a part of whatever "Red" means.

Dick would probably know, and Tim's curious.

A small breath eases out before Tim pushes himself up using his desk. "I think I'm gonna take Dick up on his offer, actually. Coffee sounds like a good idea."

"Don't have to explain it to me," Jason comments to his paperwork, pen still locked between his fingers.

Tim doesn't reply, just watches Jason for another moment like the second-long gaze will yield another clue. It doesn't, and an instant later, Tim's out the door with his empty mug in hand. He's well acquainted with the lounge by now, so it doesn't take him long to find it.

"Having second thoughts, I see," Dick laughs when Tim comes in. The man's still orbiting the coffee machine while stirring sugar into his mug, and he looks as chipper as he usually does. It's just the way Dick is, Tim's learned, an open book so long as you take the time to read him. The two of them have accumulated an impressive number of conversations here in the lounge, everything from life growing up (Tim didn't have much to say on that one.) to favorite colors. Even Dick talking about his parents didn't make the man flinch—surprising considering how tragic the incident on the trapeze was—but Dick seemed to focus more on how grateful he was that he met Bruce, the one in charge of the case, instead of the overall tragedy. It's that omnipresent optimism and forthcoming-ness that makes Tim hopeful Dick will be open to what he wants to ask right now.

"You just gonna stand in the back all day?" Dick teases with a grin. "I thought we were past that phase by now." Tim offers a hopeful smile, half-way to apologizing before Dick rips open another sugar packet and asks, "What's on your mind?"

Tim's smile falters a bit at that. Although Tim never really talks, Dick picks up on dreary thoughts like a hound, always willing to listen if it'll help. It's a nice sentiment that Tim doesn't indulge in. He simply moves further into the room and leans himself against the kitchenette counter, eying the crumpled sugar packets littering the place. Dick's been using them by the truckload it looks like.

Tim holds up one of the wads in a gesture of "think you have enough?"

"Not all of us can handle our coffee straight-up, Tim," the man laughs, completely oblivious to the fact that even normal sugar-addicts don't put seven packets in their morning joe. Tim's calculating how long he'd have to run to burn all that off—probably around ten minutes, he's guessing.

"So," Dick transitions, stretching the vowel, "what's up?"

Tim's still not sure how to broach the topic, opting for playing with the wrapper in his hands until he gets the phrasing right. Dick's patient as usual, maybe a bit taken aback by the serious look on Tim's face. It takes a short exhale before Tim decides to toss his question out bluntly: "…Jason's nickname. How did he get it?"

Dick pauses tellingly, time elastic until he sets his stir stick down with a small _clink_. "Should've guessed you'd want to know about that one," he snorts with an air of comic defeat. "Red's the one you mean, right?"

Tim nods, a bit surprised to see Dick so uncomfortable. It's a first for him.

"Yeah," the man exhales, raking a hand through the back part of his hair, "that's the one I gave him when we met. Well, I don't know if it was so much we 'met,' but Jay definitely made sure Bruce and I knew who he was."

Tim leans forward, trying to get a better view of Dick's face. "What'd he do?"

"Nothing criminal if that's what you're asking," Dick chuckles. "He was in his teens back then. Caught Bruce and I as we were coming out of the station, wearing this gaudy red sweatshirt of all things with the hood pulled up like he owned the place. I'll never forget it: Jay looked Bruce dead in the eye—uh, well, as much as he could with the height difference, anyway—and he said, 'Bruce Wayne, my name's Jason Todd. You'd better remember that, cause one day, I'm gonna be the best officer Gotham's ever seen—even better than you.'

"I didn't even know what to say to that one," Dick whistles, "but Bruce looked this kid straight back with that look he gets, the one that could scare death straight out of its skin, and Jason met him head-on." Dick pulls a few more sugar packets out of the holder as he continues, "Bruce must've respected that. He doesn't look it, but he's got a bleeding heart in there somewhere, enough that he offered to pay this snarky kid's academy tuition on the spot."

Tim can't hide the surprise on his face. He wouldn't have thought Bruce would be _that_ generous, but he guesses he still has a lot to learn about the people here.

"It's the truth," Dick affirms, dumping packet after packet in. (By this point, Tim's waiting for the coffee to saturate.) "Jay's a genius with a pistol—never misses a shot, so they bumped him up pretty fast once he got through his probation period. Cass transferred in a while later, and when Jay took to calling me 'Goldie,' I decided nicknames wouldn't be too bad to liven the team up a bit. We already had "Black" and "Speedy," so Jay was really the only one left. Of course, my first thought for him was 'Red Hood.' It had a good ring to it, and I thought it would be funny at the time: Bats and his Color Trifecta of Gold, Black, and Red—Plus Speeds, of course.

"Naturally, Jason didn't take. You know how he is. For a long time, I thought he was just being stubborn, but then I started to realize why Jason, with all his thick skin, was getting so offended. And it was because I was being a bit of a jerk, although I didn't know it at the time…."

Dick tears open the last packet before reclaiming his stir stick, a contemplative expression on his face. "Jason doesn't talk about his past. Cass and I have our suspicions, but Bruce… Bruce is the only who knows for sure. I probably shouldn't tell you, but it's just a theory—nothing solid, so I guess it's alright to share it."

Dick pauses as he continues to mix his coffee, watching the beverage like it's debating with him over whether or not he should keep talking. He must win, as he continues.

"I think he lived on the streets. Probably for a while, since he's familiar with every stretch of the rougher neighborhoods. Bruce, Cass, and I, we learned those things over the years, but Jason? He came in with that knowledge like it's common sense… Took a while for me to figure out, but I think that sweatshirt he owned—It was probably the only clothing he had at the time."

Dick eyes the countertop pensively, and although it must be years since then, he still looks a little guilty. "I dropped the nickname fast, as you could probably guess. Didn't have the heart to give him a new one, so he's just 'Jay' now."

Dick picks up his mug and turns to lean against the countertop. He casts a dreary look in Tim's direction, mouth pulled to the side as if he's trying to smile but can't manage one.

The whole thing—It's a sad story. It really is.

But it's been over a week since their breakfast at Alfred's and Jason continues to look fidgety, haunted. No doubt the memories are bad, but… Tim can't fight off the feeling that "Red Hood" goes deeper than just a bad childhood on the streets. And Tim's already here, asking about something he probably shouldn't be, so he might as well get the full story if he can.

"There's…something else, though," he presses lightly, not looking away from Dick, "Red Hood. There's more to that name than you're telling me, isn't there?"

Dick finally manages his smile, although it's a plaintive one. "You're a better detective than people give you credit for, Tim. But the rest of that story—It's just not mine to tell." The man begins cleaning up the wrappers, and Tim knows their conversation is pretty much done. "Jason'll tell you when he's ready, so be easy on him. Until then, just…don't use that name, okay?"

Tim nods, a little disappointed, but he gets it. He wouldn't want Jason digging around in his past either.

"Good," Dick perks up, and he moves to leave, pausing at the door. "You have a good day, alright, Tim? Or, as good of one as you can with all this work we've got. In the meantime…." The man holds up his caffeine-filled cup with a wink, a gesture that makes Tim crack a smile. And then Dick is gone, leaving Tim alone with the floor to meet his eyes and the tick of a clock.


End file.
